“Oh dear, I’m not dressed. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. Her name was Rhea. I suppose it depends on her own state of mind. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. ‘How do you do? I am so happy to meet you. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. I was—I was a corespondent. ‘You can if you like.
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